“Long gone, son, lonnng gone. Along with my daughter. She’s grown up now. Ain’t seen either of them for nigh on twenty. They upped stakes to Florida when she was in the sixth grade. You married?”

“Was.”

“She’s passed, ain’t she?”

Spencer nodded.

“What was her name?”

“Marielle.”

“Sure is a beautiful name. What took your beautiful Marielle from this earth then?”

“She was driving her mother up on I-75. Tire blew out. Car went under a semi. She was dead before they stopped moving. Her mother took another three days to join her.”

Milt nodded. They watched the Chevy chug out of the station.

“How come you never moved on? Most folks, after suffering somethin’ traumatizing, they move on elsewhere.”

“I don’t know. Our daughter’s schooling I guess.”

“She must really like it here?”

“You’d have to ask her.”

Milt smiled and gave a small shake of his head. Spencer caught it. “What?”

“Well, son, it’s just a strange thing to say. If there’s anyone on the Lord’s earth who should ask a daughter shit like that, it’s her father.”

Spencer looked out at the small pool of brightness that was the gas station forecourt. A bastion of light hard-pressed on all sides by the gloom of the hot night: frontier land.

“It goes real quick, Spencer. The time we’re given with people. My wife and daughter, they’re most likely still alive. Couldn’t say where. We’re as good as dead to each other. Your girl? That’s what you still have from your beautiful Marielle. I’m tellin’ you though, they grow up fast these days, and if you ain’t worth missing, then they’ll be gone quicker than you might be expecting.”

Bang! The shop door crashed open so hard it sent soda cans tumbling from shelves.

“What up, mofos!” yelled a guy as he strutted down the aisle toward them. He had his hood up and drawstring tight so most of his face was hidden. From what little they could see he was white and no older than twenty. He held a pistol on its side in that exaggerated, way-of-the-street manner. Behind him two more kids bounced in, hoods up, drawstrings tight. They were smaller, Black, no older than fourteen, possibly younger.

The guy with the gun aimed at Spencer’s face. “What the fuck you lookin’ at, faggot!”

You have got to be shitting me—twice in one day?

“Hey, calm down, buddy,” attempted Milt soothingly. “It’s all c—”

“You calm the fuck down, bitch!” said Pistol Pete. He lunged toward the counter, reaiming at Milt’s face. As he did so, he called back over his shoulder. “Get the fuck on with it!”